iddle-aged man, whose clothing is goat-skin,
evidently home-made, and cut in sailor fashion. Magnificent shaggy
locks fall in heavy masses from his head, lip, and chin. Robinson
Crusoe himself could not have looked grander or more savage in outward
aspect.

The other is a boy--a lad. He is a stout well-grown fellow, neither so
tall nor so muscular as his companion, but giving promise that he will
excel him in due time. In the matter of hair, his head exhibited locks
if possible more curly and redundant, while the chin and lip are not yet
clothed with young manhood's downy shadow.

Both, the middle-aged man and the youth, have a pensive expression of
countenance; but there is a gleam of fire in the eye of the latter, and
a spice of fun about the corners of his mouth, which are wanting in his
companion.

"Faither," said the lad, rising from the rock on which they were seated,
"what are 'ee thinkin' on?"

"I've bin thinkin', Billy, that it's nigh five years sin' we come here."

"That's an old thought, daddy."

"May be so, lad, but it's ever with me, and never seems to grow old."

There was such a tone of melancholy in the remark of our old friend
Gaff, that Billy forbore to pursue the subject.

"My heart is set upon pork to-day, daddy," said the Bu'ster with a
knowing smile. "We've had none for three weeks, and I'm gettin' tired
o' yams and cocoa-nuts and crabs. I shall go huntin' again."

"You've tried it pretty often of late, without much luck."

"So I have, but I've tried it often before now with pretty fair luck,
an' what has happened once may happen again, so I'll try. My motto is,
`Never say die.'"

"A good one, Billy; stick to it, lad," said Gaff, rising. "And now,
we'll go home to supper. To-morrow we'll have to mend the fence to keep
these same wild pigs you're so anxious to eat, out of our garden. The
nets need mendin' too, so you'll have to spin a lot more o' the
cocoa-nut fibre, an' I'll have to make a fish-hook or two, for the bones
out o' which I made the last were too small."

Father and son wended their way down the steep cliffs of the mountain at
the foot of which was their cavern home.

"What's that?" exclaimed Gaff in a low whisper, as they passed along the
top of a precipice.

"Pigs," said Billy with glee; "hold on now, daddy, and let me go at
'em."

The Bu'ster was no longer the little boy whom I introduced to the reader
at the commencement of this narrative. Five years' r